“I’m a Westerner if you say I am. We’re not the converting type, though. And we don’t always fit well with other Westerners.”
“Why is that?”
“Ha. My people spend much air, and spill much ink, asking why others keep spilling our blood. The truth is I don’t really understand it. It’s almost as if the hostility proves we’re truly the Painter’s chosen.”
“Painter?”
“Well. My people account themselves People of the Brush, in the hand of the Painter of Clouds.”
“Interesting! So what does the Painter ask of the brush?”
“Everything. Because the Painter paints everything. But most often . . . justice, knowledge, reverence for life and living. Some also say that the Painter demands we be tough-minded. But I think perhaps that part comes from us instead. A survival trait.”
“Does this Painter do anything for you in return?”
“My, you are full of questions. What does he do for us indeed! I suppose, if I’m in a kindly mood, I’d say the Painter calls us to appreciate the canvas. Water in the desert. Loyal animals. The craft behind tools and clothing. Each other. . . . And clouds, of course. Though I can’t spot any now.”
“There are dark shapes in the starfield ahead,” she said. “Round shapes. They’re moving, I think. They might be clouds. . . .”
“I hadn’t thought of that. To see clouds as absences. Perhaps you’re right. Well, that is another thing. To see things in new ways. And to regard them, even for a short time, as the Painter sees them, precious and part of a whole. To do that is to rise above pettiness. For a while. From that perspective it is easier to advance knowledge, and work for justice. That might justify some of the trouble it brings down on our heads. Maybe.”
“You don’t sound too fond of your Painter.”
“I’m not!” Flint chuckled. “Self-righteous, changeable bastard, if you ask me. The only times I really get along with him are when I don’t believe in him.”
“Wait. What?” She could not help laughing. “Do you believe in this Painter or don’t you?”
“Well, yes and no. My people’s history makes claims about signs and miracles, but we’re also supposed to be tough-minded, yes? And all my conversations with the Painter of Clouds have been one-sided.”
“Maybe he doesn’t like you.”
“Maybe I don’t like him.”
“Maybe he likes you so much, he could listen to you all day.”
“Ha! I like that. But how would I ever know?”
“You could ask him.”
“Are women of Qiangguo always so practical? Or should I say whimsical?”
“You’ll have to go ask them. I’m just the one who’s here. What I say is, how can you talk about this maybe-maybe-not deity of yours so roughly? My people think our gods—and demigods, and spirits, and cosmic forces, there are so many—my people think the powers that be are flawed. There’s every reason to believe this. And yet we’re very careful to honor them and to never annoy them.”
“That seems prudent.”
“But you, you attribute the shaping of reality itself to your Painter! And yet you mock him, snarl at him. Aren’t you at least a little bit afraid?”
“Very.”
“And yet you say you don’t necessarily believe in him?”
“Usually not.”
“Aiya. This seems a perverse thing, to have such an awesomely powerful god to not believe in. In a way it’d be easier to follow the Undetermined and believe that nothing at all is real, that it’s all a kind of dream.”
“Well, maybe so. But then you wouldn’t be real, so I reject that theory.”
“You’re a very strange person, Liron Flint.”
“Well, you’re invigorating company, Snow Pine. So I hope you don’t mind strange.”
“Perhaps I don’t.”
The night grew ever colder, and the brief shelter of the rocky rise vanished, bringing on the wind. They traveled in increasing physical discomfort and increasing conversational warmth. Snow Pine talked of her life, such as it had been, of her defiance of family and life of crime, of her gangster husband, of her daughter, lost as far away as anyone could be this side of death. Flint spoke of dropping objects from buildings to time their fall, of spending days lost in a world of numbers, of disinterring corpses for clandestine dissection. They were more honest than many married couples, yet remote as enemies, there on the cold sands with only the stars for witness.
Dawn came cloudless, and with it a promise of warmth. They crouched for a meal of dry meat and a shared waterskin.
“I wish I could promise it will be soon,” Flint said. “But I think we made good time. We may reach the place before noon.”
“I can eat as we walk,” Snow Pine said.
There were not even dead trees within the desolation revealed by the morning sun. There were rocks weirdly sculpted by the winds into shapes evocative of chalices, seashells, or billowing curtains. There were endless dunes like the humps of petrified sea monsters. There was a peculiar whistling as the wind meandered amongst its stony or sandy obstacles. There was much to marvel at. But there was nothing alive but them.
After silent hours, they beheld a ridge of golden rock, like a mountain range dragged down to a sandy grave. A few scraggly birds circled that region.
When at last they stood upon stone, Snow Pine’s spirit felt like dancing. Her body felt like staggering.
“Soon now,” Flint said, and they moved through shadow and light through a dry riverbed toward the ridge’s heart.
They entered a stone valley guarded at all sides by rocky hills. There rose a walled, four-sided town smaller than Yao’an but clearly following Qiangguo’s model. The wall was a shell, however, and only a pair of towers stood within it. The gate was long gone, and nothing green grew save a grim scattering of bushes. Wind howled through the ruins.
“Is this it?” Snow Pine asked.
“Hvam,” Flint said. “Depopulated by the Karvaks.”
“Depopulated? I hope you mean the people were driven out.”
“Some were driven out,” Flint said. “Others are still here. Do you see, at the gates, the towers of skulls?”
“Aiya,” Snow Pine said and bowed her head.
“Hvam made the error of refusing surrender,” Flint said. “What’s more, they slew the Karvak in charge, a son of the Grand Khan. It’s said his sister, who was still only a young girl at the time, proved a better commander. She was systematic in her revenge. She dammed the river that gave the city life. Wells remained, but they were not enough. When the citizens were at their most desperate, the Karvaks attacked a second time. Some inhabitants were spared. The bulk were slaughtered, as though these walls were a pen.”
“How could human beings treat each other like that?”
“You ask something I don’t think even the Painter could answer.”
Snow Pine frowned. “I think of my homeland as so powerful, Flint. And I’ve hated so much about it. But what if Qiangguo fell? Standing here, I feel as though it could.”
“I have no answer but this. Cherish your existence. I urge you to marvel at your life as if you were a member of some wondrous lost civilization. After all, from some future perspective, you probably are.”
She stared at the grim monuments. “Let’s find our camels and get the hell out of here.”
They passed beside the piles of skulls, and Snow Pine made herself look at them, even when she realized that many were too small to be adults. There were even skulls of cats and dogs and birds. They also passed between the shadows of the towers that yet stood, broken stone domes with pinnacles in the style of shrines of the Undetermined. Inside they saw rubble, for everything wooden had burned.
There beside a central well stood their camels, snorting, as if to say, What kept you?
Relieved, they verified that animals and gear were in reasonable shape. “The well’s nearly dry,” Flint said, tying a rope onto a small bucket, “but it’s worth filli
ng the waterskins.”
“Go ahead,” Snow Pine said, patting Bone’s camel Scoff. “I’ll watch for ghosts.”
She saw no spirits as the bucket clinked its way against the stone sides of the well. And yet something worried her. It was not the stillness of the place, for she expected quiet. Perhaps it was because the birds were still circling, never landing. Or perhaps—there was something not quite right about certain patches of ground within the city walls. Rubble was everywhere, except for five great patches that lay nearly smooth. She squinted and saw ropes emanating from that nearest smooth spot.
Ropes?
She whirled, and now to her suspicious eyes certain structures no longer resembled shattered buildings. They were sandy-brown tents of circular shape.
“Flint,” she said.
“Almost done.”
“Flint, leave the bucket. We have to leave now. Trust me.”
“Ghosts?” he said, but his tone showed concern.
“Worse.”
He left the rope and bucket behind, and they led the camels toward the entrance.
As they reached the shadows of the towers, they saw that it was too late. It had always been too late.
At a shouted order a score of armored men scrambled out from behind rocks. The nearest few held swords or spears, but the majority aimed bows, including a dozen on the city wall. The camels fled, and without consulting each other Snow Pine and Flint let them go, in the thin hope they’d be of use to the rest of their party.
The warriors wore helmets with face and neck guards and tassels at the top. Each had a bow and quiver. Many wore beards; all wore fierce expressions.
A woman, unarmored but likewise aiming a bow, walked toward them. She wore a blue coat, and her black hair was coiffed high above her fiercely glowering face. As two soldiers ran to catch the camels she snapped an order, and at once the men stopped in their tracks.
“You,” she said in the Tongue of the Tortoise Shell. “What are you doing here?”
“Our apologies,” Flint said with a bow. “We were unaware this area belonged to the Grand Khan.”
“You are incorrect,” the woman said. “It belongs to the Great Khatun. My mother.”
Snow Pine gripped her sword but did not draw. She said, “I think this place belongs to the dead.”
Quickly Flint added, “My friend is sun-touched. We are the survivors of a caravan destroyed by the hazards of the desert. We wished only to reclaim our camels.”
“I suspected someone would come. Well, you are in luck, as we have provisions to spare.” The woman did not lower her bow.
“We thank you for your hospitality,” Flint said, “but we have no wish to impose. And we should be recovering our animals.”
“Your camels will return of their own accord. There is nowhere else to go, or they would not have come here. And I think you misunderstand me. You will not be leaving, for even if you are what you claim, you must not alert anyone to our presence.” She lowered her bow as she nodded for her soldiers to disarm the travelers. Snow Pine realized there was no point in resisting, unless she wanted to become just another ghost of Hvam.
A falcon landed upon the Karvak woman’s outstretched arm, and Snow Pine understood, with a feeling like that of an exposed field mouse, where the circling birds had come from. “I am Lady Steelfox, daughter of the late khan and your host. You are guests of the First Aerial Expeditionary Force of the Il-Khanate of the Infinite Sky.”
What worms will we feed, dear Bone?
In what land or clime?
On the emerald downs of home
Where iron bells still chime?
On the roaring coasts of yours
By wrecks of many wars?
In grim mountains of the East
Where vultures flock and feast?
We walk and sail to far and near
And wonder shines and burns
And I still hear the call, my dear,
Though all will end in worms.
I’ll not complain, nor Reaper cheat
One hope alone I dare repeat
Though it seems grim to you—
May there be more than worms.
May there be stones.
May there be more than two.
—Gaunt, untitled,
the Desert of Hungry Shadows
I am grateful for the dusting, O Great One, and the period of repose. Now, when last we spoke, I had related the circumstances by which I became the guide of Mad Katta and learned he was no ordinary caravaner. In time I would know him for the great enemy of the demonic Charstalkers, the very ones you have bound to your service. But the nature of the conflict was not revealed to me until we arrived in the great city of Qushkent. I felt a knotting of excitement when our road turned into the southern foothills, and the rocky promontory rose before us, birds circling around its towers, and the mists of the CloudScar, that great abyss that borders the city to the south, whirling everywhere.
In the Bazaar of Parrots we sold our wares, and Mad Katta paid our guides and handlers and guards. For a short while one remaining guard, Kilik by name, argued about compensation, and in a most impertinent way. I could hardly comprehend my master’s patience.
“I, Kilik, can cut a man’s throat by tossing my sword above my head! I, Kilik, can shoot a man’s eye when he stands upon the horizon! I, Kilik, am offended by your payment of two feathergold!”
“The world’s edge, the inhabitants of other planets, the skills of Kilik. I marvel at all, though I must take all on faith.”
“I, Kilik, will not be mocked, nor assuaged by anything less than three feathergold.”
At last Mad Katta said, “Enough! Two now, and we will discuss the remainder of your payment tomorrow, after we’ve sold the last of the goods.” He was, I thought, a better man than I.
Indeed, although I do rest, and dream after a fashion, I could not sleep, though my master and his employees snored around me in the market caravanserai. I meditated upon this messy business of respiration, and how easily it could be thwarted.
At last I could bear no more sounds and rolled my way downslope to a place where stone garbage ramps led directly from the market to the CloudScar. I waited until no human was near and unfolded myself. I enjoyed the cool breezes that rippled over me from that fathomless gash in the world. Finally I felt my mind untroubled by Kilik. I thought instead of the delights of air currents, and how they would never be mine.
It is curious how a mind of melancholy bent can travel one intellectual byway after another and yet always find the paths that are darkest. My body wished to echo this mental state by leaping over the nearest barrier, and so it did. There I teetered at city’s edge, where only birds, cats, and humans madder than Katta would walk. Sunset’s rays speared out from the western deserts, while out in the abyss red vapors swirled and swam, with distant mountaintops rising beyond like islands of bloody ice. I beheld the great towers named for the Crake and the Lark and the Spiderhunter; and the necropolis that occupies a great stone shelf overhanging the CloudScar. Beyond the graves rose a solitary tower. There, Katta had said, lay the great Knot that the Nightkindlers’ Fire Saint had left behind when he transcended this world and became a blaze of lightning.
I longed to reach that tower. Were I a true flying carpet, it would be no great trouble, save for whatever defenses the kagan of Qushkent left for such eventualities. But I was merely what I was: a sort of decorative guide dog.
With a swirl of feelings as convoluted as the clouds, I returned to the caravan and, after my fashion, slept.
In the morning Mad Katta discovered that Kilik had departed his service without further payment.
“Curious,” my master said.
“Perhaps shame came upon him,” I suggested, “for yesterday’s behavior.”
“Perhaps. In any event I will leave a gratuity with the master of the caravanserai, to be donated to orphans should it not be claimed.”
“You are too generous, master.”
H
e grunted. “Even its greatest worshippers understand that coin is, at base, an illusion. And do call me Katta.”
“Very well, Lord Katta. Where shall I guide you?”
He sighed. “To the Tower of the Crake. You shall become my robe for a time.”
The crake is a bird active in twilight, and thus the tower was gray, and its interior dim and hushed. The priests and clerks of that place wore gray robes, though from time to time we passed scar-faced psychopomps with clothes the color of soot.
We entered a realm of drifting dust, shining in beams of sunlight. Circular book stacks filled the tower’s central shaft, rising ten stories to a stained-glass skylight portraying a blazing fire. The shaft descended downward as far as we could see. Moveable ladders granted access to the books at each level, with trapdoors here and there making it possible to rise higher or descend lower. I noticed that all trapdoors above were closed, and all those I could make out below were open. “Do they not wish us to ascend?” I said in the low vibration that was my form of a whisper.
“It is a visual representation of Nightkindler doctrine,” my master murmured. “It’s easier to descend into darkness than ascend into light.”
“Indeed, visitor,” said a gray-robed man who stepped clinking toward us through the dust. “The shadows drag us down, like gravity. It takes effort to reach the light . . . Surgun?” He raised his hands. Both wrists were wrapped in chains, one linked to a ring filled with keys, the other connected to a thick codex. “Is that you?”
“Ozan! I am so glad you are on duty. And that you remember me.”
“Oh, how could I forget?” The clerk embraced Katta with a clatter. “How do you fare?” He glanced at me, draped around my master’s shoulders. “You seem to have prospered.”
“Well enough. Though I have my worries.”
Ozan’s voice became serious. “I know that voice. There is danger.” He leaned in to whisper, “Charstalkers?”
“Yes,” my master said. “There are things I must research. And if you think the risk is acceptable, I would test the catacombs.”
Ozan drew a waving line upon his heart. “I will help you, but I wish you’d alert the pyrarch. It’s his function to defy such evil.”
The Silk Map Page 17
